Betty's Bliss

I've been trying to tap into writing again. I haven't done it in so long, hence it didn't come easy. I had to really work at it. Since I work for a counseling office, I hear the counselors speak about having victims of trauma finding a "happy place" when the dark times revisit their memories. I realized I did not have said happy place. Of course, the easy answer would be "sitting in a chair, rocking my sleeping baby, breathing her in," but I actually wanted to create a world. A space that I could go when things get overwhelming. This post is the description of my happy place.

I’m not really here.

I’m walking down the pavement. It feels good to have the sensation of blood running to my legs, to feel the air entering and leaving my lungs, to feel my heart pumping, to hear my converse shoes make a slow, duple meter rhythm against the sidewalk. It feels good to see life. I smell the fuchsia pink flowers in the street planters. I look to the end of the road where my current surroundings continue on but shrink. I cannot see very far down the road as it disappears into the horizon. I could keep walking, passing planter after planter, building after building, but these particular flowers have little freckled faces, and they speak to me. They remind me it all starts to look the same after a while, so I should stop walking. They’re sweet and invite me to have a seat.  

 I turn right and enter the open space between two black iron gates. It’s a long walk down a tight alleyway. The path begins to change from a boring, square, cement sidewalk to slate cobblestone where patches of centipede grass are pushing their way through the cracks. The walkway entrance opens into a large circular patio where tall, thick trees circle the entire fenced-in area which provides a hedge of privacy. The patio features a large ornamental, three-tiered, cement water fountain with a small circular pool underneath collecting tiny waterfalls and big wishes. Marble topped tables with an ivory and grey shade are placed around the fountain. I choose one of the tables facing the water.  Small yellow lights are in the lip of the fountain which makes the water shimmer like silver glitter and diamonds. I watch the liquid crystal bubble at the top of the fountain and pour itself layer by layer into the bottom pool. The dripping and swooshing sounds of the water trickling calms me, and I sit in peace just watching and listening to the soft beats. If I close my eyes, the oscillating pitter-patter sounds convince me that I am in the shower. I walk close to the fountain to see the ornate detail. I first notice a shiny layer of copper and nickel covering the pools floor. Each fountain tier is golden brown and shaped like a toadstool cap with folded up edges to give it a bowl shape. The bowl’s outer rim reminds me of a pie crusts scalloped edge. A pineapple shape is at the top where the water flows. The columns holding it together look like long pirouette cookies side by side. I realize my hunger has surfaced, and it’s time to order a pastry.

Thick ivy and vines are growing up the coal-black, spear-topped, iron fences, making it difficult to see what is behind them.  It is a private space, yet there is a feeling of openness. As I pull the chair, the bottom of the metal legs grates and scrape against the stone street. The seat cushion is royal blue with white and yellow daisies. It’s a cold seat at first, but I can finally rest. I drink in the cool, moist, air and my body opens. The day is fresh like the air, and it’s energizing to have clean breeze to breathe. The forecast predicts blackened skies and the aura is colored green and gray. No need to look for a shaded space because the sun is hiding behind the dark clouds that are building and circling above me.  The clouds stand still until I stare and see the misty vapor crawling away from me. Strands of white twinkling lights outline the patio where I sit as if I’m surrounded by fireflies. As I look to the sky to enjoy the dark clouds, I notice nostalgic, Edison-style 1910 light bulbs strings wrapped around a clear wire and strung all above the seating area. I wouldn’t have noticed these on a sunny day, but the dark clouds and gray atmosphere make them glow bright like at nighttime.

Other people are around getting their days started as well. Page politely greets me as I’m seated and says “I know just what you need.” I’ve been here many times previously. 

While waiting, I pull out my sketch book and draw whatever silly or twisted doodles come to mind. I love collecting journals, and there is one for every occasion: the online blog is for the archiving pictures, recipes, and stories or life updates for the public; the sketchbook is for potential artistic works whether it be songs, written, or visual art, the Wreck the Journal is for making a mess when I’m a mess, and the Dream Journal is saved for dreams. My purple journal is only for me to know. Page comes back with her own art piece: a hazelnut latte with a steamed milk rosetta on top.  I waft the boldly sweet, rich and robust aroma of cinnamon roasted coffee beans as the dense smell creeps into my nose. It’s a nice contrast seeing the light milk chocolate color against the terra-cotta coffee mug. Bittersweet, warm and smooth, coffee instantly relaxes my tight throat muscles yet provides the perkiness I need. Next to this gem, she places a white ceramic plate holding the most delicate, flaky, brown-golden bar of strawberry and cream cheese Danish lightly drizzled with lemon infused white icing. I get out my phone and snap a pic for Instagram with the hashtags #foodie, #pastrylove, and #nofilterneeded. The smile on my face says it all, and Page assures me she will be back in a bit with the rest. My headphones are on and I’m lost in genres of classical, metal, hip-hop, indie-rock, electro-pop, and other music that is not so easy to categorize.  I read, sketch, draw, color, and paint. I mosey over to tinker on the piano keyboard under the gazebo in the corner of the property.

Then, I hear distinct voices I could pick out of a crowd no matter how busy the area. I hear high-pitched, babbling of a precious baby girl. I hear a low tenor voice that is stretching itself to match the high pitched tone of baby. Both voices are happy, caring, playful, and loving. She points at the trees and excitingly says “Bir!” Her daddy agrees, “Yes, a bird is in the tree!” She give a scrunchy face smile and giggles. My husband and young daughter wave from a distance as they walk toward our table. As our bodies lock, I close my eyes and inhale. It’s a family hug, so I catch both scents of Baby Magic lotion and Irish Spring soap. I hold on to the warm embrace as long I can trying to brand the endearing moment in my memory. I kiss a stubble cheek and a marshmallow cheek while Page comes back with a high chair for baby. We unite at our table talking about this and that, a little chit-chat while eating turkey and crescent sandwiches with smoked gouda cheese, fruit pastries, and us adults drinking coffee until we get the shakes. Moments and memories with my family is what I truly treasure.  The grey clouds are still rolling above as a warning that they could release a storm at any point in time. I’m not worried about the rain to come, for I love the sound of a thunderstorm. I love how the rain settles the dust and grows something new. I love life.